


All in A Few Days Work

by afteriwake



Series: All Of Time And Space [19]
Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 03:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/pseuds/afteriwake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some details about his job that Sherlock does not share with his girlfriend. This case is one of them, though it does result in a new flat mate and he’s alive at the end, so it isn’t <i>too</i> bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All in A Few Days Work

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally the fifth part of “Trying To Find Our Way Down A Road We Don’t Know” but it fit better as a story all on its own. This is a re-write of “A Study In Pink.”

Almost two months had passed since Amelia moved to London, and they had settled into a routine of sorts. When he wasn’t involved in a case or she wasn’t out of town doing some modeling assignment, they made it a point to have dinner together. Sometimes breakfast, if dinner wasn’t an option, and on a few occasions lunch. But they made it a point to see each other at least once a day, any time they were able.

Right now, though, he was on his mobile while the television was running a press conference that Lestrade was holding, his cell phone at the ready. “Wrong, wrong, _wrong_ ,” he murmured, sending a blanket text message to all the people in the room.

“This is the case you think is murder, yeah?” she asked from the kitchen.

“Yes,” he said, a bit abruptly. She nodded and went back to cooking, leaving him in peace to do what it was he needed to do. And right now, it was to make Lestrade look like a fool so he’d turn his attention away from the suicide angle and towards the idea of murder. Finally he was done, and he stowed his mobile away, knowing he’d get a visit eventually. “Sorry if I was snappish,” he said as he came into the kitchen.

“You’re on a case. Or rather, you hope to be on one soon.” She gave him a quick smile, and then went back to dicing onions.

“I don’t know how you can do that without tearing up,” he said, standing behind her for a moment before the aroma overpowered him.

“It used to, but I seem to have gotten used to it,” she said with a slight shrug. 

“I remember a few times I would walk in on you cooking as a child and you’d be wiping tears away and I thought someone had said something hurtful to you,” he said.

“And what would you have done if it wasn’t the onions making me cry?” she asked with a smile.

“Given them a stern word of advice not to do it again,” he said. “Or resorted to physical chastisement if that didn’t go well.”

“Like you did when you got my stolen bike back?”

“Along those lines, yes.”

“Always my knight in shining armor,” she said with a slight laugh.

He glanced at his watch. It was nine in the morning. Molly was expecting him at the morgue at ten thirty, so he had time to eat and chat. He watched his girlfriend continue to set things up for breakfast. For Christmas she had surprised him by making him an omelet for breakfast, and since then she had continued to make them for the two of them when they had breakfast together most of the time. Since he usually had little food in his flat but plenty of eggs she made them most mornings she stayed over; when he stayed at her place they usually had something else. He was getting used to them.

They talked about a range of things as they ate: plans for the day, his theory on the case, her upcoming trip to New York for a photo shoot. It was going to be their first real separation since she arrived in London, and while he was glad for her he was also dreading it. She would be leaving that evening, hence the breakfast. For five days he would be on his own, and already he knew he was going to hate it. But he did want her to be happy, and she was bound and determined to do her best at modeling, and that meant trips to other locales for photo shoots. It was something he would have to get used to.

She finished first, and glanced at her watch. “Oh. I have to get going. Still have some packing to do and I need to go visit my agent before I leave.” She put her plate and fork in the sink, went around and gave him a soft but lingering kiss good-bye. “Enjoy the case, and don’t do anything too stupid.”

“When have I done something stupid?” he protested.

She raised an eyebrow. “You know what I mean. Be safe.” With that she went to his room, grabbed her things and was off. He debated actually doing the dishes but decided against it, placing his in the sink as well and then going to the bedroom to get ready.

He arrived at the morgue at ten thirty, and met up with Molly. She seemed overly eager to see him, and he paused. He remembered something Amy had mentioned at breakfast that, if women showed him too much attention, he was to casually mention he had a model girlfriend. He had shaken his head at that, as a sign that she was being irrationally jealous, but he looked at Molly in a new light this morning. She was wearing lipstick, and when he came in unannounced she never had it on, and then suddenly it was on. He pushed that thought to the side for the moment, doing what he needed to do, and then waited.

She wrung her hands slightly. “I was wondering…would you like to have coffee?”

Ah. So now he understood. Amelia had been right in this regard, and not just irrationally paranoid. “I’m afraid I can’t,” he replied.

“Oh. Then…maybe a quick bite later?” Molly said hopefully.

“I have a girlfriend,” he said, realizing that this was the first time he’d actually said that sentence out loud.

“Oh,” she replied, clearly surprised. “Oh, I didn’t know.”

“Her name is Amelia. Amelia Pond.”

Now Molly’s eyes widened. “You mean…Amy? The woman in the Petrichor adverts? _That’s_ your girlfriend?” 

“Yes,” he said with a nod.

“Oh,” she said, in a slightly dejected voice. Then she sighed. “It was worth a shot, but I can see I’m outclassed. Once again, I lose a guy I like to her.”

He felt a twinge of something, not guilt but perhaps pity. The familiarity with Amelia also surprised him, but he let it slide. “There will be someone else,” he said quietly, slightly unsure of himself. 

“Oh yes, I know,” she said. “I just…never mind, it’s not important. I’ll text you with the results.”

“Thank you,” he replied. He headed to the lab he worked out of, running the experiment he needed to run. 

An hour later, the door opened, and Mike Stamford walked in, followed by a man with a cane. He gave them both the briefest of glances and then went back to what he was doing. “Sherlock?” he asked.

“Yes?” he answered, not looking up.

“Were you still looking for someone to share your flat with?”

He paused in what he was doing. He hadn’t quite been looking, at least not very hard. Mrs. Hudson had dropped several subtle hints that he should look harder, hints that were starting to get less subtle, but he hadn’t the time or inclination. To have someone drop in his lap might be a start, at least. He took a better look at the other man. Military haircut, tan that didn’t go above the wrist…he watched him walk a few steps, realizing his limp wasn’t uniform, and he hadn’t asked for a chair. It was psychosomatic. “Iraq or Afghanistan?”

“Pardon?” the man asked.

“Did you serve in Iraq or Afghanistan?” he asked, staring at him intently.

“Afghanistan. But how did you—“

“It’s quite clear if you know what to look for,” he replied. He looked back at his experiment and smiled. He had gotten the expected results. “Good,” he said to himself. Then he looked back at his company. “Let me borrow your phone,” he asked the unknown man.

Reluctantly, he handed it over. “Keep it local.”

Sherlock looked at it for a moment, then keyed in a text message, sent it and gave it back. “Tomorrow, seven-thirty. I have plans for the rest of the day.” He reached over for his gloves and grabbed them.

“We’ve just met, and not talked much, and you’re asking me to look at a flat,” the man protested. “We don’t know anything about each other.”

“I know enough to be satisfied,” he replied. He glanced at Stamford, who had an amused grin on his face. “Stamford will vouch for me.”

“I don’t even know your name or where to meet,” the man replied as Sherlock went to the door.

He opened it, and then paused. “The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street,” he replied. He could hear Stamford assure them man that he was not a raving lunatic as he left. Lestrade still hadn’t contacted him, but he had other business to attend to. He managed to fill his day up, went to sleep at a reasonable hour and got up early the next morning. He checked the refrigerator to see if there were any leftovers, but there were not. With a sigh, he went to the nearest bakery, got breakfast, and arrived back at his home at seven twenty-eight.

His potential flat mate was getting out of the cab that had pulled up as he was approaching. “You know, you don’t even know my name,” he said as he got closer. “It’s John. John Watson.”

He nodded, and gave him a slight smile. “I know. I had to go back for something, ran into Stamford and he told me.”

John shook his head. “Are you always like this?”

“Quite often, yes.”

“And is there anyone who can put up with it?”

His smile widened, just a little. “Yes, there are a few.” He went up to the door, John behind him. He opened it and made his way up. Mrs. Hudson was waiting outside. “Mrs. Hudson, John Watson.”

“Hello,” she said with a smile.

“Hello,” he said, giving her a nod.

“I knocked, but you weren’t in,” she said to Sherlock.

“I had to get breakfast,” he replied.

She frowned. “Amelia didn’t leave you anything?”

“No, but I’m sure her home is stocked with leftovers that she just didn’t have enough time to bring over. Good thing I have a key.”

“Who’s Amelia?” John asked as they got to the door.

“My girlfriend,” he replied, noting absently it was the second time in two days he’d had to say that.

“He’s being modest,” Mrs. Hudson said with a slight chuckle. “He’s dating Amelia _Pond_.”

“The model?” Sherlock happened to be glancing at John and saw his eyes widen and his jaw drop. If the news got that reaction out of everyone he may have to share it more for sheer entertainment value. “How?”

“Childhood friends,” he replied, getting his key. “She came to London a few months back to visit, moved here in December, though she insists we started dating in September.” He shrugged slightly. If he moved in he might be more specific, but not too much; not everyone needed to know about the Doctor, and most wouldn’t believe him. “Oh, she has a key. You may run into her sometimes. She’s assured me she’ll stay out of the way of whoever is sharing this place with me, but she does like to cook. She may be inclined to feed you as well, not sure.”

“I look at it as kind of a bonus,” he murmured, and Sherlock smiled a bit.

He opened the door and they all stepped in. “It’s a bit of a mess.” He watched John look around. He hadn’t realized just how much of a mess he had left it, though, and hurriedly cleaned off a chair. 

John sat down, and then used his cane to point to the mantle. “Is that a human skull?”

“Yes. It was a friend.” He paused. “There are all sorts of oddities around here. For cases and such.”

“I looked you up last night,” John said. “A consulting detective?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“He’s quite brilliant,” Mrs. Hudson said. “He helped me with a problem I had once.”

“Yeah?” John said.

“My husband was convicted of murder in Florida. Sherlock helped.”

“Got him off?”

“No, I made sure he got the death penalty,” Sherlock said. “Mrs. Hudson’s offered me reduced rent as thanks.”

John blinked. “Oh.”

Hard footsteps were heard outside. Sherlock turned and watched Lestrade come up to the door. “Why is it every time I come by you seem to have company?”

“I have an interesting life,” Sherlock drawled. “Has there been another murder?”

“A suspicious suicide,” Lestrade insisted. “But yes, there’s been another one. This time there’s a note.”

He brightened slightly. “Who’s on forensics?”

“Anderson,” Lestrade replied.

He made a face. “I hate working with him. He won’t be good as an assistant.” He thought for a moment, and then turned to John. “Would you like to see me work?”

John looked from Sherlock to Lestrade, then back to Sherlock, mulling it over. Finally he nodded slightly. “Couldn’t hurt.”

“Excellent! We’ll follow the car,” Sherlock told Lestrade.

Lestrade nodded and left. John got up out of his seat, and followed Sherlock out. “How did you know I was ex-military?” he asked as Sherlock hailed a cab.

“Many little details: hair-cut, tan lines, psychosomatic limp. It all screamed wartime soldier.” A cab pulled up. “I can tell you more.”

“All right,” he said as Sherlock opened the door and they got in.

“Based on your phone I know you have a poor relationship with your brother. Scratch marks next to the charging port, note engraved on it. Whoever used to own this phone was an alcoholic; drunks have bad eye-hand coordination. I surmise they left it with your relative when they left him, and he gave it to you. You’re having money issues, because most calling plans allow for long distance but you told me to keep it local. You don’t want to ask for help.”

“That’s brilliant,” John said. “Except for one point.”

“Oh?” he replied, surprised.

“Harry is short for Harriet.” John looked at him with a slight grin, and Sherlock found himself smiling as well.

“Normally I’m never wrong,” he replied.

“Well, for all intents and purposes Harry is more masculine,” John said with a chuckle. “But really. That was brilliant.”

“Thank you,” he murmured. They spent the rest of the time in silence, companionable more than awkward. When they got to the scene he walked right up to it while John got tied up with Sally Donovan. He had a quick look around, made his conclusions and told Lestrade what to look for. Then he left, with John behind him. He signaled another cab, and then had it stop two blocks away. He got out, retrieved something from by the dumpster, and then got back in.

John looked at him. “What on earth is that?”

“Jennifer Wilson’s luggage. I think I’ll find what I need inside.”

The rest of the time went quickly as Sherlock set the trap. He and John parted for the afternoon, and then John came back that evening when the trap was ready. He asked questions, and complained a little, but when they set out to watch he went with him. They nearly caught the murderer, but he managed to evade them, making for a disappointing evening. Upon returning Mrs. Hudson met them outside. “The police are here.”

“Oh no,” he groaned. He went inside and sure enough, police were turning the house upside down. Lestrade was sitting comfortably in a chair, Jennifer Wilson’s luggage next to it.

“I knew you’d find it. I’m not an idiot,” Lestrade said.

“You can’t just barge in here,” he said, his voice low.

“Drugs bust,” he replied, leaning forward, a slightly smug smile on his face. “So you can help us properly, or I’ll let them continue.”

“I—“ he began, but Lestrade put up a hand.

“ _Or_ ,” he added, leaning back again, “we can tear this place apart and then move on to a lovely flat in the SoHo district where you are keen to spend time.”

Sherlock paled slightly. A drugs bust at Amy’s flat would ruin her career. Lestrade had him cornered, and he knew it. He sighed. “Fine.”

“Good.”

“How did you know?” Sherlock asked shrewdly, narrowing his eyes.

“I did my research.” He pulled out a tabloid magazine he had folded next to him, stood up and handed it to Sherlock. He opened it up and there, splashed across the page, were paparazzi pictures of him and Amy leaving her flat, one of which included a kiss. “It came as a shock to all of us. There were pools running all over the place about you. Those pictures made Anderson a richer man.”

Sherlock scowled. “How did he know I was dating Amelia?”

“He didn’t. He was the only one who thought you might have a girlfriend,” Lestrade said with a shrug. He whistled to get everyone’s attention. “Wrap it up. We won’t find anything here.” The cops began filing out, and Lestrade was the last to leave. “It turns out Rachel was the name of our victim’s stillborn daughter.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock replied with a frown, starting to pace. “Why would she be thinking about her?”

“You said he spends time with the people he poisons,” John said. “Perhaps he talked to her about her daughter?”

“Perhaps. But she was clever. She had to be, hiding her double life. Why would she—“

Mrs. Hudson came to the door. “Sherlock, your taxi is here.”

“I didn’t order a taxi,” he said absently. “She had to…” And then he got it. In a flash, it all made sense. “She never lost her phone,” he murmured. He turned to John. “John, on her luggage, the tag. There’s an e-mail.”

“jenny.pink@mephone.org.uk,” he read off as Sherlock sat at his computer and pulled up a website.

“What didn’t she have that any businessperson would have?” he asked as he typed.

“A laptop?” Lestrade guessed.

“Exactly. She did her business on her phone. Rachel wasn’t just her daughter’s name. It was her password.”

“I don’t see what that will tell us,” John said.

“Sherlock, the driver is most insistent,” Mrs. Hudson said from the door.

He made a noise. “Fine. John, check the webpage and find the GPS for the phone. That will tell you where the killer is. I’ll go handle the driver.” He moved past Mrs. Hudson and went out the door. What he knew, and had not told the others, was that he would be conversing with the killer. He had put the pieces for this together as well. He strode out to the waiting cab. “Hello.”

“Hello,” the man said. “You almost caught me.”

“I know.”

“I saw all the police go away. Something urgent?”

“Nothing important,” he said. “I take it you want to talk.”

“Let’s go somewhere more private.” He opened the door to his cab, and Sherlock climbed in. He hoped that the location had come up by now. The cabbie pulled away and he settled in. “It’s very simple, how I do it. I offer a choice.”

“And people just take this choice?”

“With some persuasion,” he replied.

Sherlock nodded, and looked out the window. He had to have faith that someone was still watching the page. It was a risk to do this, one that could potentially blow up in his face, as all risks were apt to do. He mused, just for a moment, that this event would be added to the things Amy did _not_ know about his work. He and the driver chatted until he pulled up to an old school and led the way in.

They walked until they got to the cafeteria. He sat on one side of a table, and the driver sat on the other, his back to the windows. He had seen the gun the cabbie had on him, but the way it was positioned in his belt told him it was fake and that he needn’t worry about it. What he wanted was answers, and this was the best way to get them. He had gotten a few, but he needed to know how he got the victims to take the poison. The cab driver set a glass vial with a pill inside on the table. “Your fan would get a kick out of this.”

“What fan?” he asked.

“The one who warned me about you. And you may think this is it, but it gets better.” He placed an identical vial with an identical pill next to the first. “One of these is poison, the other is not. I always give them a chance to choose.”

“And they see the gun of yours and make a decision,” he replied.

The driver nodded. “Naturally.”

“It’s a fake. The gun, that is.”

His opponent chuckled, and then placed it on the table. “I don’t think I could fire a real gun with any accuracy, in my condition, unless I was very close.”

“I can turn you in right now, you know. Get you convicted and put an end to your madness,” he replied.

“But then you’d never know if you could guess. The great Sherlock Holmes, faced with the answer of whether he can predict his own mortality.”

It was tempting. It was a prospect that appealed to him, and before he would have taken up the challenge. He was smart, smarter than most, certainly smarter than the man before him. But first, he wanted one more question answered. “First, tell me who my fan is.”

“A man named Moriarty,” he replied, pushing the bottles closer.

Sherlock paused, his hand hovering over one, before he knocked it over. “Thank you.” He stood up.

“You’re refusing the challenge?” the man said, his voice rising in anger. “You, the greatest mind in the world, and you don’t want to _know_?”

“I have things to live for now,” he said, not turning around. He heard the man get up, a clatter of metal on metal, and then he turned, only to hear a bang. The glass behind him exploded, and the driver slumped down to the ground. Sherlock went to him and saw a bullet hole in his chest and another gun, a real one, gripped in his hand. He looked out the broken window and saw no one on the other side. Then the police barged in and he realized exactly what had happened and just who had saved his life.

The police were already waiting outside. Lestrade and John were there, and he also thought he spied his brother, hanging off to the side, talking to John. He answered Lestrade’s questions as best he could, and when he saw his opportunity he feigned shock and went over to John, who had indeed been chatting with his brother. “Interesting conversation?” he asked when he arrived.

“He offered me money to spy on you,” John replied.

“Did you take him up on it?”

“No.”

“Pity. Amelia had enough sense to agree. We split the money. It came in handy for a bit.”

“Your girlfriend spies on you?” he asked, aghast.

“Well she did, until she discovered he doesn’t like hearing about _everything_ I do. She can be a minx at times, and he’s an utter prude.” He paused. “Tonight falls under the header of things I do not talk about with her.”

“Does she know how dangerous your work can be?”

He nodded. “She knows. She just doesn’t like specifics.”

“Ah.”

“She arrives back from America in a few days. As my flat mate, you’ll most likely meet her for dinner that evening. She promised she would cook.”

“How did you know I was going to take the room?” he asked.

“I just knew.”

John shook his head. “I think that might take some getting used to.”

“You have time.” He turned to his new flat mate and grinned, and got a grin in return.

\--

A few days later he was in the kitchen when he heard the key in the lock. “She’s here,” he said, his comment directed at John, who was typing on his computer.

“Do I look all right?” he asked, closing the lid on his computer and standing up.

“She wouldn’t care if you had on a potato sack and ash on your forehead,” he replied, coming out of the kitchen as the door swung open.

Amy caught sight of him first and even though he had warned her there would be company she put her handbag on the floor and went up to him, putting her arms around his neck and giving him a lingering kiss which he eagerly returned. “I’m gone five days and you only called once. You solved the murders, didn’t you?”

“I did,” he replied, settling his hands on her waist.

“I knew you would,” she said with a wide smile. She turned her head and angled her body towards John. “Hello. I’m Amelia. But you can call me Amy.”

“John. John Watson,” he replied. She pulled away from Sherlock and went over to shake his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

She scoffed slightly. “I’m not royalty, just a pretty face.”

“Which happens to be on all the bus terminals in downtown London,” Sherlock pointed out wryly.

“Yes, well.” She shrugged and he saw she was blushing slightly. Then turned back to him. “Did you buy the ingredients I told you to in the e-mail I sent?”

“They are sitting in the kitchen as we speak.”

“Well, I hope you weren’t counting on leftovers. I sort of brought company.”

He raised an eyebrow, and then she got a peculiar look on her face and he groaned as it hit him. “I thought he was leaving you alone. You were done travelling with him.”

“Yes, well, he was worried, wanted to check up on me. And just remember he’s your friend too,” she pointed out.

“I know that,” he said with a sigh. “Is he outside?”

“He’s right outside the door.” She went up to him and took his hands in hers. “Please tell me you’re not mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he replied. “Go let him in.”

She beamed, let go of his hands and opened the door. “Is it my imagination or did you change things?” he heard the familiar voice ask.

“I got a flat mate, Doctor,” Sherlock replied, going over to the time traveler. “John Watson, this is the Doctor.”

“Doctor? Doctor who?” John asked.

“Just the Doctor is fine,” he replied, shaking John’s hand. John looked over at Sherlock with an arched eyebrow. “I think you’re going to need some wine with dinner, Amy,” he added as he watched the exchange.

“Forget wine,” Sherlock replied with a sigh. “I have brandy. Mycroft thought it would be an appropriate bribe for some ungodly reason. It would probably work better.”

“So, how do you know Sherlock?” John asked the Doctor.

“It’s rather a long story…”


End file.
